HD 'Tuesdays'
by tigersilver
Summary: Frotting, snogging; any era, any setting. One of the series set deliberately anywhere in the Potterverse. Harry POV.


One of the series of 'no place, no setting' ficlets. Place this anywhere in the Potterverse you choose, my dears, and have a bloody ball!  
Glomps from Tiger:

Title: Tuesdays  
Author: **tigersilver**  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: frotting, snogging; any era, any setting.  
Note: For **demicus*** as a HUGGLE, in times of woe; for **lariopefic** as a **HUGE THANK YOU**! For **stellamoon**, because _**yes**_, I do like beer-some. And for **red_rahl*** for the Happy B-Day thingie!

**HD 'Tuesdays'**

"You're late, Potter!"

Malfoy's hiss was irate, but then he gave Harry no chance to reply. Tuesdays were for snogging and Malfoy took that seriously. Like now, this minute, when his lips slid over Harry's already parted and damp ones, open with promise.

"What the fuck kept you, bastard?" Malfoy mumbled, irritated, muffled by hunger. "_Umph_!"

Harry threw himself into it with gusto. The blip on his Map had magically become flesh-and-blood—or rather, a great hot git with Squid arms and a snake's jaw, capable of unhinging itself and devouring him whole, face first. Harry often felt his only recourse in these situations was to attempt to match Malfoy gulp for gulp, lunge for lunge, swallow for swallow—until he ceased thinking altogether and let himself merely feel. Huh! 'Merely'!

Malfoy's lips were thin and tinted rose. _Pink_ was too plebian a word to describe them, really. _Winter rose_, like a hothouse bud frosted too soon, was a much more apt description. But their delicate colour only belied their internal heat. They branded Harry—and he knew that Malfoy did that deliberately, just as he knew he very decidedly left marks just above Malfoy's collar as evidence of _his_ ownership of this long drink of mercurial Wizard—and marked him clearly as 'off limits' to everybody else. Once kissed by Draco Malfoy, or so the saying went, one was ruined for any other bloke's snogging, after.

So true. Bloke was a champion snogger. Ace, tops, A-one. The contrast of thin, elastic lips (moist, moving, hard, tender) and tongue (oh, that tongue of his was a ruddy lethal weapon!) and the pressure of Malfoy's jawbone grinding against his own: it left an imprint on the snoggee that was literally unforgettable. Harry was uniformly jealous of every other git and girl Malfoy had snogged, ever. It slayed him to think he hadn't owned all those kisses—the deep, tonsil-eating ones that left him gutted; the sweeping passionate ones that felt like flying; the tiny butterfly pecks that were like fairy wings tickling and teasing—_those_ kisses, from Day One.

Which would've been ridiculous, and Harry knew it. No proper eleven year old thinks of snogging with envy—or any sort of deep-seated, uncontrollable craving. But he liked to think that he would've, if…events…hadn't rather gotten in their way, he and Malfoy. And he still saw green—and red, damn it!—when he thought of the git making out like this with any one other than him. Which was why, naturally, every snog on a random Tuesday—and Tuesdays were rushed and intensely scheduled for the both of them—was a precious opportunity to wipe all previous snogs from the prat's great blond brain and replace them with Harry's own brand of snogging.

It was like dancing, this; it was like fighting, as well—it was a scuffle of tongues and a duel of the lips, formal and deadly accurate: Malfoy thrust—Harry feinted; Malfoy jabbed—Harry licked the git's gums; Malfoy tickled the roof of Harry's mouth—Harry practically shoved aside Malfoy's tonsils. Like that, it was—a bloody show of snogging one-upmanship. A battle to the death by saliva-coated skin.

It was Malfoy's care that did Harry in, always. There was that first rush of passionate possession—the 'You're _mine_, wanker!' stamp of a raw, rude caveman tactic—and then Malfoy (the insolent prat) inevitably segued into a sweet, drugging Dance of the Seven Veils; a houri-style seduction of Harry's mouth. Harry melted, as always. He'd no choice. Lost track of time as Malfoy's tongue stroked his: both sides, top and down deep into the very soft flesh beneath the root. Completely lost his concept of where he was and where he was supposed to heading when the great ponce twisted his gaping jaw over Harry's in an effort to fucking dive in—as if Harry were a well and Malfoy were intent on drowning within him.

When Harry thought during these brief, heady sessions (always stuffed in corners and out-of-the-way locations), if he thought at all, it was that Malfoy was a man on a bleeding mission. He was driven, just as Harry was. He was bound and determined to erase the faintest scent or taste or muscle memory of Cho and Ginny and whomever else Harry had snogged in passing in the interim. Malfoy wanted Harry pure and unsullied. Undeniably _Malfoy's_, the arrogant prat.

Harry—boneless, clinging, gasping through flared nostrils and leaking sticky moisture down his achy chin—had no problem with it…as long as it was effing mutual. Malfoy was his now, as much as he was Malfoy's. Tuesday's snogging put a cage and a frame on it—Merlin, they practically _begged _to be discovered, the two of them! Didn't they?

Schoolboy mentality, all the way, these Tuesday things, between Harry and Malfoy. Him, with his collar shoved roughly off where Malfoy nibbled on his neck; Malfoy, flushed high on his cheekbones and panting harshly, robes racked askew from where Harry tugged at them, popping buttons, wrinkling expensive fabric with nary a care for the consequences. Cocks grinding together as hips glued at bone level; the muscles in their respective arses clenching and flexing under feverish grip. Chests moving frantically as oxygen and little things like proper respiration went utterly by the wayside—eyelids clenched so tight they crinkled and ached and ears oblivious to any sound but the needy noises of each other.

There was nothing else in the universe, see, but Harry and Draco, going at it hammer-and-tongues, in the bloody Snog of the Century. That was Tuesdays, all the way.

And then it was over. Just that fast. Harry was shoved abruptly back into the wall (or whatever surface the wicked git had him pressed up against) and Draco Malfoy was glaring at him, as if Harry were a bloody rampaging hippogriff and out to scar Malfoy again, forever. Harry himself was narrow-eyed and blisteringly angry, and he menaced the uppity bastard with eyes of green acid flame and black-clouded brow. They resented the fucking Hades out of each other for a small eternity—hated each other with all the intensity they'd ever known, ere this moment. And all because—and this was _the_ bloody cherry on top, the kicker—they had to stop. To halt, before those painfully engorged cocks crushed between them could be rendered limp and happily quiescent. Before the swell of testosterone-charged blood rushing through their veins and obliterating their normal acuity could subside back into a peaceful, boring, everyday flow.

_Before._ That was the bitter end of it—and the promise. Every Malfoy snog left Harry speechless with want—no, lust and need and an unquenchable hunger. There'd never be enough Malfoy for Harry—never! He'd always crave the feel of pointy bones and wide shoulders, long hips and longer legs entwining with his own. Big feet stepping all over his smaller ones in the rush to be so close they were indivisible; long arms that caught him fast and furious, latching on like bloody Incarcerous…never letting go, never letting him stumble or fall.

He'd always desire—beg for—the chance to breathe in Malfoy's brand of air, straight from the fastnesses of his lungs, and the hope of tasting the remainders of tea and biscuits and maybe more on his velvety, bumpy serpent-slick tongue. He'd gag for his gums to be gouged by Malfoy's forcible intrusion into his orifices (mouth, ears, the hollow of his throat at the base)—he would cheerfully _die_ for those fucking teasing little nibbles that left his own lips swollen and tell-tale. All of that. Harry wanted it. _Lived _for it—and he got it. At every opportunity, on a Tuesday.

He'd the Map, still, of course, which was once again mainly helpful for following Malfoy's meanderings. And Malfoy had a bloody _Point Me_ charm attached to Harry's aura—the prat-of-ages could always locate Harry, he could, effortlessly, and snog him at will and whimsy, the buggering, teasing, infuriating bastard. Leave Harry fucking starving for more Malfoy saliva, more Malfoy snogging; leave him helplessly enthralled and with knees bent and buckled, after.

As Harry did, in return. This was mutual, all of it. Malfoy was always wild-eyed and blowing hard through that elevated nose of his after a snogging session, when circumstances and scheduling forced them to halt. And Harry loved that incredible rush of power he felt, just as he loved the bloody tsunami of anticipation.

Snogging Malfoy on a Tuesday was just the precursor, of course. A merest taste, an appetizer for a fucking feast of the senses to come. When the sun died and the obligations were waded through, there'd be Malfoy, sneering and waiting impatiently for Harry (or the other way 'round, as Malfoy was as much in demand as Harry was, it seemed.)

"What?" the prat asked of him all too often, all butter-would-melt and swaggering hot-shite when he abruptly yanked himself away from Harry's fried bones and charred inhibitions. "You scared, Potty? Afraid to keep on?"

"You wish, arse," Harry would snarl, anger and satisfaction battling under a huge happy swell of knowing he belonged to someone—someone who'd kill to keep him, someone who'd bloody well do _anything_ to have their Tuesdays continue on as they were, uninterrupted. "You just so _wish_, don't you? Bugger!"

Malfoy grinned like a demon spawn, and the sight of that mouth curved into relaxed good humour—the merry glint in those eyes and the quirk of that brow—nearly had Harry swooning, despite all his bravado. Malfoy moved fast and faster, damn him—which was how Harry had ended up in this situation in the first place!

"I do, as a matter of fact, Potter," Malfoy confirmed, his voice a deep-seated rumble, welling up out of that scarred chest, that whipcord musculature…like hot chocolate sauce pouring over melted vanilla ice. Fucking could taste that sentence, Harry could—revel in it, as he reveled in every frantic murmur of Malfoy's all-encompassing desire for him only thirty seconds—a bare minute—before. "And you'd better watch out, too, Saint Potter. This isn't over yet—not by a long shot. You'll get yours, arsehole. See if you don't."

"I wish," Harry sighed, letting his head droop on his love-bitten neck despondently. He was fucking hard as a bargepole and so gagging for Malfoy's tool, he could taste that, too. "Damn it."

"Never mind, Potter," Malfoy curled that top lip at him all too speciously kindly, and set his shoulders in a tiny arrogant shrug as he pulled his robes together, settling them. "Just be patient. You'll get yours, I promise."

With one last peck to Harry's nose—the git!—he spun on his heel and away, off down the faceless dull corridor, off to resume whatever the fuck it was he had on, and Harry fell back, alternately smiling stupidly and furiously frowning.

Tuesdays were always all about the snogging, and _yes_—he would give his eyeteeth to keep up the good fight with his nemesis, should anyone ask. 'Course, he'd have to hex them for asking him something so personal, but still…it was plain as the just-kissed nose on Harry's face, what he'd been just getting up to with that arse Malfoy.

It was just that way, thanks ever so, and Harry would never willingly alter it. Not Tuesdays (cue snogging), nor any other day spent in the company of the blond menace.

Not _ever_.

_A/N: Another 'no time, no place, no setting or circumstances' ficlet in this series of them. Help yourself to whatever favourite fantasy you feel suits Tuesdays best—and leaves you the most satisfied, after. _


End file.
